Something about the black people changes as you go east and then south. I'm not hardly qualified to make any real sense of the subtleties and gradations of black culture. However I kept noticing something. It did seem that the vibe I got from blacks in Ohio differ from Portland from Denver and moreso in New York. The formidable-ness increased markedly. Then through the old south it seems more relaxed, more at home, more indigenous so to speak. The difference is pleasant to your observant senior transsexual. And there are more dreadlocks. A real tam-wearing graybeard rasta across the aisle, weary and calm. But no accent.
A lady got on in Orlando has actual ropes woven in with twisted fake dreadlocks. 1/4 " twisted gold nylon ropes. And not just one or two, a whole head-full, twisted up into a rather attractive parody of the Victorian padded halo bun.
No racial tension I can sense at all. Not even undercurrent like 1969 when I was through here last time. Black guys of the twenty -something hanging with white guys. As a matter of course. This surprises me I don’t remember seeing this in Portland. I like it.
No racial tension I can sense at all. Not even undercurrent like 1969 when I was through here last time. Black guys of the twenty -something hanging with white guys. As a matter of course. This surprises me I don’t remember seeing this in Portland. I like it.
It would appear from what I observe as this beat down rattletrap speeds through the Florida night, that one way black men are just like white men: they like to hear themselves talk. And I see that black women can also have an insane sense of entitlement. When I pulled the little lever and laid the back of my seat back to go to sleep the lady in the seat behind me immediately and violently kicked the back of my seat and when I asked her to please don't kick my seat resentfully pouted you on ma legs and kicked it again. That pretty much tore it for me.
Lady, we all got problems. Go fuck yourself.
Of course all the adrenaline woke me up. I left the seat reclined for an extra 20 minutes just to fuck with her. And I looked into my heart and the hatred I felt towards her was utterly colorblind. Assholery is colorblind. To paraphrase Shakespeare if a rose was an asshole they would all smell the same. Then to emphasize this very point I scrunched my butt as far back into the crack between seatback and seat, as I raised the back to its fully upright position I passed what I hoped was a stinky half-gallon of high-test right through said crack.Take that, ya crack...
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